Musings of a Sycophant
by declivitous
Summary: Draco keeps a log of his naturally sychophantic ways. It's just that Ginny Weasley won't leave him alone.


**Disclaimer**: Standard disclaimer applies. I don't own much, and certainly not the places and/or characters within this fanfiction. I'm making no money off of this. The only thing I'll probably earn is ridicule.

**Contact**: e-mail at blankphoto13@yahoo.com or lj username: declivitous. 

**Add. Notes**: Unplanned and with a foggy future, who knows where this will go. Let's hope not on hiatus. Review if you read.

  
  
  
**Musings of a Sycophant**

  
**September 2nd**

It was unbearably hot today. Mainly, I lurked behind corners and dark hallways, during those hours in which I was forced to attend classes. I avoided windows and large drafts of sunlight as much as possible, but such things are not always entirely avoidable.

And it would seem that Potter, Granger and Weasley fall under the same category. I round an innocent corner and look to find remnants of their vile contaminations. A proper government would outlaw such defilement of the general human kind and expel them to Azkaban.

Granger also decided to call me a sycophant today. Overlooking the trivial matter of having to actually look up the word, I decided it would pass under a compliment. What's the point of being at the top of your class if you don't even know how to properly suck up? There is no point in that. Therein lies the difference between Granger and I: There is no point in her existence.

Quidditch practice is starting next week; I dearly hope the Gryffs won't take it too badly when we win, because this will be the year. Hope Potter won't bawl for weeks on end, as I predict. 

Ah, my own sense of humor never fails to amuse me.

  
**September 9th**

Ginny Weasley has a death wish. Or something. 

The statistics stand as follows: Number of times G-Weasley has attempted to knock me off my broom during _practice_: 10.

Number of times succeeded: 10.

Number of times she has made a derogatory comment to me in the past hour: 20.

Number of times I have retorted rather wittily: 20.

Number of times she has sneered most superiorly in response to my rather witty retort: 21. She threw in an extra one there for measure, it seems. 

She's a complete bully; completely uncontrollable. I've even taken the liberty of leaving her team alone during practice, since we've had the misfortune of having to share the pit a few instances, yet she persists in her futile attempts to thwart me of my plans to win the Quidditch Cup this year. Maybe she is just the bad egg in the family. 

I take that back. They are all bad, rotten eggs. She has merely been in the hot sun for extra long, making her rot all the more. I realize that now.

If this continues until tomorrow, I'm taking action. 

Will admit to no one of the slight bruises appearing on my arm due to her abuse.

  
**September 11th**  


We play our first game (against Ravenclaw) a week from today. Practice has gone remarkably well for the past few days; Crabbe and Goyle really getting the hang of it now. They've stopped mistaking human heads as bludgers. Goody for them.

G-Weasley problem still not resolved. 

Bruise count: 5.3 Slowly fading, however. Hope she does not inflict new ones. I beg you, omnipotent deity, wherever you may be.

  
  
**September 13th**

Ridiculous. My robes are sopping with mud. My hair in disarray. Hogwash. 

  
_Conversation At Quidditch Pitch_:  


" Weasley, I need to talk to you." I say importantly in the general direction of the Gryffindor Quidditch team as they file into locker rooms to change after practice. Big, tall Weasley struts over, looking confused. He always looks confused. 

" Not you, dimwit. The female." I am impatient, naturally. Like I normally have time to converse with commoners. G-Weasley's lips curl upward at this, as if this is hilarious. It's not. Big Weasley grunts. 

" What do you want with my sister?" He asks, blinking largely. God, he spoke so slowly. I could have counted all of the freckles on his cheeks by the time he said a single word.

" Clearly none of your business." I mutter.

" It is if you're—"

" Ron, it's okay." G-Weasley decides this is the appropriate place to butt in. " It's nothing. I can handle myself." Her voice is sickeningly saccharine sweet. How could you ever be nice to such an idiot, I wonder inwardly. As the rest of their disgusting team disappears into the lockers, G-Weasley commences glaring at me. 

" I haven't eaten in ages. Make it quick." She orders. 

" Look." I roll up the sleeve of my robe. She blinks once at my arm, before her eyebrows rise. 

" Thanks, Malfoy, but I'm not really interested in gazing at a sickly pale flab of skin." 

" You have bruised me!" I shake my head, getting to the point. I decide to ignore the remark against my finely toned and quite muscular arms. " Look at those purple marks! Very distinct, wouldn't you say?" 

She yawns obviously, feigning boredom. What an arrow to my heart. Not. I straighten up, making a point of the fact that I am taller, and therefore bigger than her.

" If you don't stop being an insufferable bully, Weasley, there'll be consequences." She opens her mouth to let out a raucous laugh.

" I'm shaking in my boots." She wiggles her fingers at me and giggles. At this point, I'm getting frustrated. It's getting late, I'm tired, and some incompetent Weasley is not getting the point.

" You're not getting the point, are you?" I huff. " You. Are. Getting. On. My. Nerves." 

G-Weasley's giggles do not evaporate. In fact, they multiply. She is now laughing loudly and quite girlishly, you would not think her the common bully that she actually is. 

" I don't find any part of what I've just said funny." I say as calmly as I can. She nearly smiles at me, tears of mirth brimming in her eyes.

" No, you're hilarious."

" I _know_ I am, but I didn't make a joke, Weasley." I sigh. " I would like it if you laughed only when I asked you to."

She looks suddenly disinterested in me. Her smile slowly wiping off her face, she shrugs.

" I don't know what to tell you about your little problem, Malfoy." A grubby hand reaches out to pat me on the shoulder. I try not to cringe. " It seems to me that I've rattled someone severely." 

" This is abuse! The one time I'm leaving someone alone, she retaliates at me unfairly!" I cry frantically. The thought of hexing her enters my mind. But she has older brothers, doesn't she? Not wise, so I reconsider and continue shifting my feet irately.

" Really ironic, isn't it?" Weasley agrees, staring at me through narrowed brown eyes. 

" Obviously, I've stated my stand on the matter multitudes of times now. I hate redundant conversations. Let's just agree to leave each other alone." I can't believe what I'm saying, but at this point, I'm hungry too, as my stomach demandingly growls. 

" Nah." The word deters me from the train of thought currently traveling to dinner. 

" I've really got to go, though." She says hurriedly. " Lovely chat, maybe we can talk more when I'm not busy." The way she says the last bit, I know that means never. She flashes a quick smile at me, which was actually more of a crude smirk. She is about to leave me stranded near the soggy Quidditch pitch, when she ambles back a few steps.

" Forgot something, though." I roll my eyes, about to tell her she's not going anywhere until we've resolved our differences. There's a blur of movement and a loud thump as I lose my balance.

  
Then, I seem to be snogging the ground with a mouthful of grass.   
  


_End Conversation._  
  
  
  



End file.
